


The Rosie Chronicles

by NameMeAgainIveBeenLost



Series: Of Broken Things and Their Golden Gleams [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adopted Children, Adoptions, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Found Family, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Parents, Trans Character, Trans John Watson, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29153751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NameMeAgainIveBeenLost/pseuds/NameMeAgainIveBeenLost
Summary: A collection chronicling Rosie Watson-Holmes. From Adoption to adulthood.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Of Broken Things and Their Golden Gleams [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1355710
Kudos: 15





	The Rosie Chronicles

**Author's Note:**

> So this will be a wider in-universe series wherein John and Sherlock adopt a rescued trafficking victim and grow their little family. Each chapter is from a moment centering around Rosie or the Watson-Holmes' family life as a whole. This universe is getting bigger than I anticipated, but I've been wanting Daddy John and Papa Sherlock for a while. Rosie was end goals for me, I want more queer parents and aging LGBT+ people goddamnit.   
> As with the rest of this series, each chapter will be able to stand on it's own, we all hate cliff hangers so I'll try to never leave you with one.
> 
> Disclaimer as always: I am not a trans man. I do not speak for trans men. I am working off of google and my friends. I'm doing my absolute best to be sensitive and respectful.   
> *TW*: there will be a very very brief non-graphic discussion regarding the discovery of explicit photos of child victims, discussions of human and sex trafficking with the implication that there are very young child victims involved. Again, nothing graphic at all. John and Sherlock save the day.
> 
> People with mental health can still be good parents, we've got to stop lying to ourselves and saying we can't be good parents and I will die on this hill, I will not be taking criticism on this, thanks.

“This is a bad idea.” John sighed under his breath, exhausted, anxious. He rubbed the back of his neck tiredly.

“Of course it’s a bad idea.” Sherlock snapped, but not at John, at Greg. Greg just shrugged and sighed in exhaustion.

“Look mate, I can’t take her home with me, she can’t go into the system with her kidnapper still looking for her. What do you suggest I do?” Greg asked, he sounded defeated and annoyed. Sherlock snarled and began to pace the small office, John, who’d been awake for almost two days ( _thanks for that, Sherl_ ) sagged into the chair.

“Greg, we don’t know the first thing about taking care of a kid.” John argued weakly.

“You take care of Harvey all the time!” Greg argued with a furrowed brow.

“Yes, well that’s different, isn’t it.” Sherlock sneers, “You expect two men to take a strange little girl to their home for the night? And just how do you think that will be perceived?”

“No,” Greg said, slow, like he’s talking to an obstinate child, which isn’t that far off, “I bloody well expect two men, who I know to be trustworthy, to give a victim shelter for a night or two so we can buy more time to track down the people who have been TRYING TO BLOODY SELL HER!” Greg finally yelled. Tensions were running high; John could cut the air with a knife as the two men stared each other down.

John took a look out the glass wall that separated Greg’s office from the bullpen. A little girl sat on a bench, thoroughly unimpressed at whatever Donovan was saying to her. She had pale skin, probably from being locked inside all her life, dark golden hair that fell in ringlets around thin shoulders, and wide, intelligent, sad blue eyes. The girl flicked her world-weary gaze up and made eye contact with John. John could almost feel the misery in her bones.

This girl, this tragic, anonymous being with no name, no past, nothing but the ratty clothes on her back. This child, who couldn’t be more than three, or maybe she could, she was obviously malnourished. She needed help, she needed a moment of safety. Just a bit of rest, John was a doctor, a soldier, a protector, and provider. He had a duty to…

“We’ll take her home.” John suddenly said, surprising himself and everyone else. Sherlock looked at him wide eyed and panicked.

“What?! What the hell are we supposed to do with an abused child, John?” he argued, John could almost see the panic attack setting in, so he stood and rubbed a hand down his husband's back.

“She needs help, Sherlock, and we need to shut down the trafficking ring before they leave London again. She’ll be safe with us, and it’ll buy us time. They’ll probably look for her for, what? Another day or two?”

“Three if she’s in demand.” Sherlock said in that blank way of his. John and Greg grimaced in disgust.

“Right, well, it’ll buy us time either way.” John nodded, as if it solved everything.

“You realize her attackers were probably all men?” Sherlock pointed out in a last-ditch effort. John squared his shoulders.

“Yea, I know. But she needs help, you want to send her home with Donovan? Woman couldn’t even keep a bloody bagel safe, you really want to trust her with a child?” John tried for lighthearted and failed by a mile, his exhaustion wearing on him. Finally, Sherlock grunted and sagged in defeat.

“You’re changing diapers.” John rolled his eyes at his husband.

“She’s at least three, Sherl, she probably doesn’t wear diapers.”

“Then you’re cleaning the couch if she makes a mess.” Sherlock snapped. John didn’t argue that, there’s no telling if and what type of abuse she’d suffered, bed wetting wouldn’t be out of the question.

The cab ride home was awkward, the girl sat stoically between John and Sherlock, silent as the grave. John was honestly a little uneasy with the lack of noise. They stopped at the shops to fetch the girl a few necessities, toothbrush, comb, a pair of pajamas, when John asked if she needed pullups at night, she just silently shook her head. John was unsure if she even knew what pullups were.

When they returned home the girl dutifully took the toothbrush into the bathroom with the instruction to try and bathe, from Sherlock of course. When John awkwardly asked if she needed help with her hair, she stared at him hard for a moment before nodding and leading him to the bathroom. John quickly and clinically washed away the dirt and grime of London streets from the girl, then tucked her into her princess nightgown. She handed him the comb then sat in front of the couch, waiting for him to sit and comb out her long tresses. As he did, he remembered being in her position as a child. Playing with his doll as his mother gently combed out his long golden hair and hummed under her breath. He would have smelt like bubblegum shampoo, his skin still warm and damp from his bath. The fire in his living room burning brightly, warming his bare, scabbed knees peeking out from beneath his favorite night shirt. It was one of the only peaceful times he remembered from his childhood. A moment of quiet and rest, the eye of the eternal storm that was his home life. He found himself finishing with her hair faster than he anticipated. She took the comb and tucked it back into the paper bag it came in, along with her dirty clothes and toothbrush. All of it was neatly piled at the foot of the couch.

He’d never seen such a tidy child. Even as a little one, even in his tumultuous home, John still left dolls and toy cars laying about, coloring books and crayons on the coffee table and half-filled milk glasses on the counter. Her almost robotic movements, silence, and nearly neurotic tidiness was unsettling and heart breaking at once. She should have been asking a thousand questions, gaping at the books and beakers, trying to grab the skull on the mantel and touching Sherlock’s violin. Not staring at him with the most somber face he’d ever seen on a child outside the battlefield.

The trio worked in a silence only John seemed to feel. Sherlock, in a surprising show of tact, didn’t ask the girl questions about her captors. Instead, he made a pot of tea and dropped a blanket and pillow on the couch.

“Are you hungry?” John asked the small girl, trying to fight his own exhaustion. The girl silently shook her head from her place perched on the far side of the couch, her little bottom nearly off the edge and toes still not touching the ground, hands primly folded in her lap. Trying to make herself as small and unobtrusive as possible. “ah… right. Do you… want a bedtime story?” John asked, racking his brain for his own bedtime routines as a little one. He recalled Harry whispering stories into his ear as a small boy when she’d sneak into his bed after an argument with their father that went too far. He was always unsure if she was trying to make him feel better or herself. The girl stared at him hard for a minute before turning to look at Sherlock who was preparing three mugs of bedtime tea. She pointed at the gangly man.

“Sherlock?” John asked, confused, the girl tilted her head, eyeing the taller man, before nodding. “oh… kay?” John breathed out. After making up the girls’ bed on the couch, he made his way into the kitchen, laying a gentle hand on Sherlock’s back.

“Sherl?” John murmured, looking over his shoulder at the girl. Sherlock hummed in answer as he dipped the pad of his ring finger in the girl’s tea, testing the temperature. “I, ah, I think she wants you to read her a bedtime story.” Sherlock straightened; his face carefully blank as he eyed John.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, deadpanned.

“She’s insistent.” John shrugged helplessly. After a moment Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled.

“And what, pray tell, am I supposed to read her?” John sighed in exasperation as they moved into the living room, wondering why he picked such a difficult partner.

“You’ve got to have some story or another stored in that big brain, and there’s a million books in this flat. Just pick one.” John nearly pleaded. He was exhausted, barely able to move let alone keep his eyes open. Sherlock scowled at him for a moment before sighing.

“Fine. Both of you, sit somewhere.” He ordered.

The girl, now carefully clutching her cooled half-filled mug of tea, squirmed back into the couch for a moment before going still. She delicately began to sip and John had the thought that, tomorrow, after he had slept at least eight hours, they would need to get a name out of the girl, or else pick one for her. After a long moment of Sherlock seeming to wrack his brain, his deep voice began to tale of _Winnie the Pooh and the Wrong Bees_. The little girl seemed entranced, though it was hard to tell from her excellent poker face. She sat still and silent, sipping her tea at random intervals. Finally, her drink was finished, and she set it on the coffee table. John found himself rising and helping to get the girl tucked into the couch as Sherlock continued the story.

She seemed so small. Too many bones. A baby bird all hollowed out, not yet able to fly, not even able to chirp. She looked at John with her intense doe eyes for a long moment before her tiny hand squeezed his and she snuggled down. His gun callused palm dwarfed her tiny grasp, some long forgotten and abandoned part of him ached as he tucked the blanket around her and took back up his place opposite Sherlock. Sherlock had paused, looking at him in wonder, for what he didn’t know.

The tale continued on until the little girl, who had been staring intently into the slowly dying fire, began to drift. Her eyes going hazy and soft, her grip on the blanket that was swallowing her whole loosening. Another moment later and she was breathing deeply, her face lax, her body at ease. Sherlock paused, considered the girl, then continued the story a moment longer while John quietly took their cups into the kitchen and locked up for the night.

As John lay in bed, their door cracked least the girl find herself needing anything, he stared at Sherlock’s face. The man was illuminated by the soft light coming from the bathroom, (light on, door open in case the girl needed the loo and couldn’t see in the dark), and the hazy moon filtering in their window between gauzy curtains and London fog.

“You were good with her.” John finally said. He decided he couldn’t be blamed for anything he said until he’d slept. It had been two days without rest after all.

“So were you.” Sherlock rumbled lowly, as though they were discussing the weather, though John could see the flush on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“I mean it. She went right to you, asked for you and everything.” Sherlock was silent for a moment, analyzing him.

“Oh.” He finally said, one brow lifted in surprise.

“What?” John asked, confused.

“You want to be a Da’.” Sherlock said. And John felt a flush on his face, a disbelieving laugh quietly escaping him.

“Don’t be stupid, Sherl. I don’t know the first thing about kids, or parenting. Why would I ever want-?”

“You’d be better than your own father.” Sherlock pointed out gently. John rolled his eyes.

“Sherl, a pack of wild dogs would be better than my Da.”

“Still,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Still what?” John was getting irritated now, he hadn’t seriously thought about children since he transitioned. The government didn’t even want to admit people like him existed, let alone allow them to raise a child. “It’s not like we can keep the girl, she’s a victim-“

“So are we. Who would understand what she’s lived through better than us?” Sherlock whispered, grasping one of John’s hands between his own. “We could, if you wanted, you know. I don’t know the first thing either but if you want… we can make it work.” John just gapped.

“You’re serious? You’d upend our whole lives, just like that?”

“You’ve wanted it for a while. I just didn’t really think about it, and I think you didn’t either.” Sherlock shrugged. John groaned, laying his head on Sherlock’s chest, and shaking his head.

“Sherl, you can’t make this kind of call after one night of putting a child to bed.”

“Why ever not?” Sherlock asked, affronted and John chuckled.

“Because this isn’t… children are loud and messy and take over your lives. There’s schooling and childcare, and sick days and nightmares and gum in their hair and football games and ballet classes and college and break ups and huge screaming rows and-… and a million other things. It’s not always letting a child pass out on the couch after a cup of tea and a short bedtime story. There’s… things to think about.”

“And we can’t think about them because…?” Sherlock seemed confused at John’s reluctance while John was baffled at his husband’s willingness.

“God Sherl, just on the day to day here at home. No social service agent would ever let a kid live here. We’ve got a bloody lab upstairs complete with explosives and severed body parts for crying out loud. And that’s another thing, what about your experiments? And the kitchen would have to be childproofed, the living room is an array of books and papers, any child would destroy them in a minute. And that’s not even taking into account us.”

“Us?” Sherlock’s voice sounded small, his brow was furrowed, concentrating on everything John said with an intensity that meant he was cataloguing something new.

“Yes, us. Sherlock, our lives are dangerous. It’s all well and good for two grown men, but what about a child? The strange people coming and going at all hours, the villains creeping in the shadows. Not to mention our temperaments. We’re not the most patient of men. You can’t sulk for three days and refuse to eat when you’ve got a kid. You have to take care of them. Always. You can’t lose your temper with them, you can’t throw mugs when you get stuck on a case, or put severed feet in all my shoes when we bicker-“

“One time,” Sherlock grumbled in annoyance and John kept on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Sherlock, we’ve both got PTSD, some days we can hardly take care of ourselves. How the hell would you expect us to care for a bloody child? And not to mention…” John trailed off, biting his lip.

“Not to mention we’re queer.” He murmured quietly, Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed. “I mean it!” John argued, “Sherlock we’re both queer as a bloody pride flag, you think the adoption process is nice to people like us? Not to mention I’m fucking trans. How do you imagine that looks? Society is just barely gotten to a point where gay couples can adopt, it’ll be much harder for us as men, and twice as hard with me in the picture. It’s not an easy process for anyone, Sherl, let alone a PTSD ridden trans ex-soldier and his self-proclaimed sociopathic crime fighting husband. The idea is lunacy. The best we can hope for is to make sure the girl gets to a safe home after all is said and done.” After a moment Sherlock sighed. He leaned his forehead against John and held his hands tightly.

“I can’t fix those things tonight, my love. But perhaps in the morning. Perhaps… perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I was hasty. Truth is… I don’t know. It felt right sitting there, like… like a complete family. Not that you and I aren’t complete alone, just… do you understand?” John nodded.

“I understand, but I know you. You jump ten steps ahead. This isn’t one of those things you can do that with. This kind of thing takes months or years of preparation and planning, and that’s if it goes through at all. It’s certainly not a decision you can make in a night. Besides, we don’t even know her name, or if she even has one.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement and laid a kiss on John’s check before pulling the soldier close. They both fell asleep that night with questions of “ _maybe_ ” and “ _what if_ ” and “ _if only_ ” floating around their heads.

The next morning John awoke wrapped in warmth with a set of deep blue eyes staring at him curiously just over the beds edge. He yelped and flinched back on instinct. Sherlock, the complete wanker that he was, just grunted and weakly smacked John before rolling over, stealing all the covers, and burying himself in stolen warmth. John felt a minor irritation along with the morning chill that was subdued when the little girl curiously begins to poke at a wound on his bared ankle.

“Good morning,” he said, not moving as she traced the scar with small fingers, both amused and heartened by her independent show of curiosity and unwilling to spook her. “Are you hungry?” He asked, assuming it to be the reason for her seeking them out. The little girls face brightened, just slightly, and she nodded, just once, little golden curls flopping in her eyes.

“Alright then,” John gave her a smile, reaching out to tuck the errant curl behind her ear, which she allowed after a slight twitch, confused eyes following his hand until she realized what he was doing. He remembered that kind of flinching from his own childhood and tried to not let his face fall.

When John sat up and swung his legs over the bed, she stepped back and waited patiently as he put on his slippers and pulled on his house coat. In a fit of inspiration, he grabbed his recently washed bath robe, much shorter than his dressing gown, from the back of the closet door and wrapped it around the little girl. She lets out a barely audible giggle once John stepped away, making him grin in turn. It still swallowed her whole, despite only reaching her ankles, draping over her form like a seal’s skin. Baggy, massive. Kind of adorable. The sight and her giggle as she held up her arms, the massive sleeves slipping down past thin hands, made John’s smile widen.

The girl, though she didn’t speak, was eager to help with breakfast. John decided pancakes and eggs were the way to go. The little girl was excellent at cracking the eggs, when John checked them before putting them on to fry, he only found a small piece of shell. He praised the girl who flushed red with pride, a little smile cracking on her lips.

By the time breakfast was done, Sherlock has arisen from the world of the dead with a never-ending groan. A zombie shuffling into the kitchen, summoned by food. He stopped and stared at the little girl who was standing on a chair at John’s side, carefully adding tea leaves to the tea pot and messily (though not as messily as John assumed she should be) putting sugar cubes in the sugar bowl for herself and Sherlock. Then John saw Sherlock’s perfect mouth twitch into a smile as he joined the fray.

The girl seemed overjoyed by the pancakes. Obediently, she devoured the set amount of eggs and quarter apple John gave her before her wide blue eyes silently pleaded for the pancakes. She managed to eat not one, not two, but three by herself before sighing contentedly and leaning back in her chair, little legs kicking under the table. Until she began to doze against Sherlock's side. He looked at her in amazement when she boldly leaned on him, as if she’d done something remarkable. The conversation from last night ran rampant in John’s mind.

Sherlock carried her back to the couch and allowed her a few moments of rest as he and John cleaned the kitchen before both men dressed for the day. After all was said and done, Sherlock plopped the little girl in the client chair as he and John took up their places across from her. She kicked her feet and stared back at them quietly, brushing wayward curls out of her eyes every few seconds, the poor lamb was in desperate need of a haircut. After a moment Sherlock spoke.

“Do you know your name?” he asked. The girl just blinked at him, a little furrow between her brow.

“If you want to speak, it’s ok,” John tried, using his soothing bedside manner voice, “we won’t be upset if you do. In fact, we’d be very pleased if you could speak to us and answer a few questions.” The girls face morphed into one of doubt and disbelief, her small face turned down in a moue that broke John's heart.

“Very well then,” Sherlock cut in, “If you can’t speak verbally, will you answer with nods?” the girl nodded readily. John’s eyebrows rose and he looked at Sherlock who looked rather relieved but was still analyzing her tensely.

“Good, now, first things first, do you know your name?” the girl nodded, “wonderful. Do you know the alphabet?” The girl tilted her head, thinking for a moment before she shook her head no, Sherlock frowned at that. “Very well, do you see anything in this room that looks like your name? Anything that starts with the same sound or-“ he cut off as the girl hopped up immediately and made her way to the book case. She pointed intently upwards. It took a moment, but eventually Sherlock rose and picked the girl up, allowing her access to the higher shelves. She immediately pointed to a peacock green, leather-bound book. John had seen Sherlock read this book on occasion; it was some sort of antique flora guide that once belonged to Sherlock’s grandmother. The girl tapped the rose embossed on the spine with one small finger.

“Rose?” Sherlock asked, setting the girl down. She nodded smartly, “So your name is Rose?” she nodded again.

After much back and forth they eventually managed to wrangle the girls age out of her, 4, and who she lived with, Sir (John shivered in disgust at the implications). By the end of the strangely charades-like interview Sherlock had just about pieced it all together, the only thing he felt he was missing was the hideout of the operation. (“ _That many people unwillingly funneled into London? Of course, there’s a hide out, how else would you keep them quiet!_ ”)

Sherlock paced the floor in eagerness as John helped dress the girl and comb out her long hair. She smiled at him sweetly when he finished, dark blue eyes looking into his soul. He thought, again, about parenthood. He hadn’t contemplated it seriously in many years. But he was right, last night when he talked so long his throat went dry, ranting at Sherlock. He could barely care for himself some days, how could he ever care for something as precious and delicate as a child?

Greg and Donovan arrived a few minutes later to John and the little girl playing a game of Operation on the living room floor (Rose was surprisingly good), and Sherlock pacing with his long legs, stopping occasionally to eye the map of London tapped up on the wall over the couch.

“You’re 3 and a half minutes past usual, what happened?” Sherlock snapped. John just rolled his eyes, which elicited a small smile from Rose, before standing and approaching the adults in the room. Greg huffed in annoyance.

“Sally and I just came in different cars, you prick-“

“Greg,” John warned in the same soft voice he warned Sherlock. Greg’s eyes flashed to the wee one giggling so softly it was nearly silent as she made the game buzz loudly.

“Er, sorry. Anyway, Sally will take the lass back to the station, us three are going to a warehouse on the docks. We’ve gotten a tip that our men were seen there last night.” Sherlock froze, then groaned.

“The docks, of course, it’s always the bloody docks, idiot” Sherlock whispered, sighing with annoyance at himself and pinching the bridge of his nose, before looking down at Rose on the floor. “And… what of Rose?”

“Rose?” Greg asked, confused.

“The girl.” Sherlock nodded in her direction. Sally scoffed.

“What, did you give her a name? Like a lost pet? It’s a child, Holmes, you can’t just name them as you-“

“I didn’t-“ Sherlock hissed, cut himself off, looked at Rose who was looking back and forth between Donovan and Sherlock with wide eyes. Sherlock took a breath and visually relaxed his stance, “we asked her name and she pointed to a book with a rose on the cover. We didn’t just “ _name_ ” her.” Sherlock couldn’t help the way he sneered at Donovan. A taken aback look came over the woman’s face, but she didn’t say anything more.

Greg, with a furrowed and confused face, looked between John, Sherlock, and Rose before speaking again. “Er, right, well, there’s a social worker waiting at the station, she’ll gather… Rose and take her once the docks are secured.”

“Will she get adopted?” John suddenly piped up, leaning in so their conversation stayed privet as Rose continued to make the game buzz loudly, finding himself anxious about the fate of the small girl in his flat. Greg looked away guiltily.

“Honestly…? I don’t know. She’s still young enough, I guess, but we don’t even know the full extent of what she’s been through. God knows what’s happening in that head of hers, most adoptive parents don’t want to deal with that.” Greg shrugged. “I’m sorry mate, I wish I could tell you she’s got a happy ever after waiting, but I don’t know.”

John and Sherlock locked eyes, their silent communication (“ _maybe if…_ ” “you know we can’t” “ _we could try-_ “ “And then fail.”) John gave first at the look on Sherlock’s face, looking away in guilt. They couldn’t help everyone, he told himself, they couldn’t save the whole world. It just wasn’t on. John helped the girl stand and pack her meager belongings in the paper bag from last night and strapped her new little glittery sandals on her feet. She looked a bit better, John decided, a little less pale, a little less blank. Rest, food, human decency. Amazing what just a little of each can do.

It was with a heavy heart John watched the little girl and Sally Donovan descend the stairs of 221B Baker Street. The little girl looked back for just a moment and gave him a sad smile, raising a free hand in farewell. John had a feeling she understood exactly what was happening. He tried to smile at her as she vanished but found it impossible, the twist of his lips felt all wrong.

* * *

The people were being stored in an abandoned warehouse near the docks. The team stormed in, Sherlock and John allowed to enter after the building had been cleared.

They found 26 other women and children living in repurposed crates and makeshift cages. A wooden box had been turned into a play pen for an infant, a chubby little thing with a tuft of black hair and deep almond eyes. John felt sick.

Once Sherlock had access to the computer of the ringleader, the whole story just fell together so easily even the police could have handled it.

The group was buying children through the dark web from others, independent contractors, who had in turn bought the children from desperate, or just plain evil parents or family members. Older children, the teens, claimed they’d been obstinate at home, or sold to cover debts. They were beaten and bowed, trembling. Only one girl was abducted rather than sold by her family, a sixteen-year-old American girl who had been visiting family in Ukraine over the summer and gotten snatched at a festival after being separated from her cousins. The network had been using the docks to smuggle people into the UK through containers, where they would deliver them to buyers, before again moving the operation to another country. It was sheer luck they caught the group before they moved once more.

They found receipts from bought children, and bills of sale from sold ones, hopefully the police would be able to track down the poor souls that had already been sold off and save them. Rose was among the receipts, it appeared she was, in fact four years old. There was no birth date, but there was the country and city of sale, a smaller city in Romania, Sherlock told him, and it mentioned that she was sold by a woman. Most likely Rose’s mother had gotten in over her head and sold her daughter either for drugs or to pay off debts. She wasn’t a new purchase though, she’d been with this man for three of her measly four years.

It would seem that the younger children had been used as… unwilling models until they found the highest bidder. The pictures they found made everyone recoil and John sincerely wanted to dip himself into a beach bath. These poor children just went from one misery to another.

The leader of the who thing, who had managed to barely escape the raid, was holed up in a safe house down in the seedier part of London. It took three calls and Sherlock had the address from his homeless network. Greg thanked them for their hard work, telling them not to come along lest John’s hand slip and accidentally fire his gun.

Even as he watched all the survivors being shuffled out into the sunlight for the first time in who knows how long, four ambulances looking people over and beginning to transport them, this didn’t feel like a win. He felt hollowed out. This had only been the tip of the iceberg. They didn’t have the people who ran the illicit site, they didn’t have all the users, and there was a stack of receipts inside, humans being bought and sold like cattle. Maybe some of those smaller kids went to unsuspecting parents on black market adoptions, but it was unlikely, and those numbers were slim. These people had been at it for years, at least a decade. There was no telling how many they were too late to save.

“They’re not gonna find her parents are they.” John said, feeling utterly defeated.

“I don’t think anyone wants that to happen.” Sherlock confirmed. He was frowning, his face pinched in frustration. He hated loose ends, but this was more than that, he was nearly fuming with an impotent rage as he watched a paramedic wrapping the baby from the wooden playpen in a blanket.

“We did good today.” John said, not sure if he was trying to convince Sherlock or himself. It was the same tone of voice he’d used with younger medics on the battlefield. Covered in blood and debris, they’d look at him in bewilderment, opening their mouths to point out the two civilian families they couldn’t reach in time and their comrade covered in third degree burns being air lifted to a hospital. He’d say it again, more firmly “ _we did good today. Three saved families, containing the destruction, and no casualties on our end. We did some good today._ ”

“Was it enough?” Sherlock asked. John sighed heavily, he’d heard that over and over. The answer was always the same.

“It’ll have to be.” He said, clearing his throat gruffly and blinking back tears.

“We… we could do _more_.” Sherlock said, hesitant, looking at John, face drawn, almost pleading.

“Yea…” John looked on as a little girl and boy, perhaps 10 and 6 respectively, shivered as they huddled under a scratchy shock blanket. They eyed the female officer in front of them warily as she pulled a bar of chocolate from her coat and broke off a piece, presenting it to each child. The kids eyed each other before taking a bite, their face lighting up at the sweetness, grinning at each other in surprise. John swallowed past the lump in his throat, “Yea… I know.”

He looked back at Sherlock. In that moment they knew. Sherlock held out his hand, and John took it, casting his eyes over the scene one more time.

* * *

They could find no record of a missing Rose that fit the time frame or location of her sale, and seeing as there was no proof she was a Romanian citizen, Rose ended up at a group home in London. The home, Mycroft assured them, was specifically designed for children who had experienced trauma. The requirements for adoption were lengthy. In the end John and Sherlock bought out 221C, mold and all, and began renovations to make it into a suitable lab and office space for their work. They looked into schools and child therapists, met with social workers, poured over finances and installed new security measures. And three times a week, without fail, they found themselves at Rosie’s group home. Sherlock and John would take turns reading heavily edited accounts of their misadventures to the excited children who sat with mouths agape.

Rosie didn’t speak until three months after her initial rescue. She was sat in John’s lap while Sherlock recounted their adventure in Baskerville, censored for little ears, when she looked up at him.

“Can I come spend the night wiff you?” John looked down at her in shock. Her voice was high pitched and whistly. She looked nervous to have asked and John couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“Soon,” he promised. She pouted slightly but nodded, laying her head back on his shoulder and paying attention to Sherlock’s tale. When John later told one of the workers in the home, she was pleasantly surprised.

“I haven’t heard about her talking at all,” the woman said, “this is a great sign, she must really trust you.”

By the time their brought Rosie home for the preliminary observation period some six months after her rescue, she was more comfortable speaking to communicate, but seemed to only talk in full sentences with John and Sherlock. Her face lit up brightly when she saw her new room. John showed her the monitor on her bedside table, pointing out which buttons she needed to push if she wanted John and Sherlock in the night, that way she didn’t have to traipse the stairs. She was ecstatic about all the books on her shelves and the little crocheted narwhal Mrs. Hudson had made her.

“Is it my room?” She asked, looking around at the cream walls and white sparkly curtains with little fairy lights around the edge, the child sized desk in the corner with a stack of coloring books and art supplies, the low twin sized bed with its teal blue comforter and tall headboard with a rose carved in the center, the lamp on her nightstand along with the monitor, the large bookshelves with puzzles and games and books, the closet which she hadn’t yet checked was full of clothes. They had installed an LED light in the ceiling, when she turned the lights off it would cycle through a soft rainbow pallet and serve as a night light, John didn’t want her to ever feel trapped in the dark again.

“It’s all yours.” John said, crouched beside her while Sherlock stood in the doorway looking in.

“Do I gets to stay wiff you now?” She asked, face suddenly lighting up in excitement. John grinned at her enthusiasm.

“Only if you want to, but yes, that’s the plan.” She squealed in delight and threw her arms around his neck. John wrapped his arms around her small frame and stood, face buried in her curls. She smelled like baby shampoo and faintly of Sherlock’s cologne from where he’d swept her into a hug and tucked her against his side on the car ride. John suddenly felt Sherlock’s palm on his back, and he reached out blindly, pulling Sherlock into the hug. His face was wet with tears and his throat felt clogged, he heard Sherlock try to sniffle discreetly and knew he felt the same.

“Why you’re crying?” Rosie asked, pulling back, little hands on his pock marked face.

“Sherlock and I are very happy we got to bring you home.” He explained, Sherlock sliding over so she could see him too. She reached out and placed a palm on Sherlock’s face as well, little fingers at the corner of his eyes where the tears clung on.

“Are you gonna be my daddies?” She asked. Sherlock took her hand in his and kissed it, grinning brightly, John felt a smile stretch across his own face. The lines at the corner of his eyes tugged, silver kissed his hair line, he’d aged, he’d lived, he’d suffered, and now his cup overflowed. He remembered a time his father told him he’d never have a family, never been accepted, cherished, desired, or needed. Look at him now, to try and count the people who loved him would be to attempt counting the stars in the sky.

“Yes, Rosie, we are.” Sherlock said, his arm wrapping around John’s shoulder. Rosie grinned.

“Cool.” She said, almost in awe, allowing John and Sherlock to hug her for a moment longer before squirming out of their hold and excitedly running about her new room.

Sherlock kept his arm around John’s shoulder, kissing his temple.

“We deserve this.” He said, in the same tone John had said “ _We did good_ ” all those months before. Trying to convince himself and John this was real, this was something they were capable of and above all, deserving of.

“We do.” John said, wrapping an arm around his husband’s waist and watching as Rosie opened up the toy chest under the window and removed the set of zoo animals before flying a bird through the air and making a quiet “ _caw caw_ ” sound, as if testing her own voice. She was in no way fully healed from her time in captivity, but little ones were resilient. With time and therapy and patience, she would be screaming and running about like a little terror, just as any happy, healthy, little one should. With time, her memories would fade, and John wanted to ensure that all that was left was a happy childhood, if a little out of the ordinary, after all life was never dull with Sherlock around.

They deserved this. They all deserved to be happy and have a family, they deserved it more than most, if John was honest. He looked at Rosie and couldn’t imagine ever being like his father, couldn’t imagine ever looking at her with anything but an overwhelming and awesome love. He’d do anything to protect this home he’d made, to protect these people who deserved his devotion. He made this for himself, he pulled himself out of blood and bone, he learned to be love and loved, he deserved this, and he would continue to put in the work every day to deserve Rosie and Sherlock’s love. To be the man they needed. Protector, provider, supporter, father, and husband.

**Author's Note:**

> "But R" you say "How did they adopt her in such a short timespan?"  
> well to that I say  
> They're technically fostering at the moment but also ~*Mycroft Magic*~
> 
> Also if you didn't know, this is your local childcare worker letting you know excessive, suddenly restarted, or continued bedwetting well into late childhood is a key symptom of child abuse, especially sexual abuse. If you or a child you know is bedwetting excessively, has suddenly begun bedwetting again, or is bedwetting into their mid and upper childhood years, please talk to them about adults or older children in their lives. Especially family members, family friends, or caretakers/older friends who have a prominent role in the child's life. 
> 
> please visit https://childabuse.stanford.edu/screening/signs.html for more info on common symptoms and signs.


End file.
